For Jack's Sake
by Whilom
Summary: It was meaningless to think about it still. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. It had started with a question.


_"For Jack's sake, just shut up and stop talking about it!"_

That had been hours ago. Seven, to be exact. It was now 2:54 a.m. and the conversation that should have been forgotten by this time was still circling in Bobby's mind. It was meaningless to think about it still. It shouldn't have been a big deal. It had started with a question.

00000

_"What's for dinner?" Angel asked._

_Bobby shrugged, focused on tying his boots. "Whatever you wanna cook up, sweetheart."_

_"Look, don't patronize me, man, I haven't been youngest in years," Angel returned testily. _

_Icy stillness fell. Angel looked like he had just said the crudest thing he could think of. Jerry dropped the keys he was jingling in his hands. Bobby froze, hunched over on the couch._

_Angel swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Bobby was quiet. Never a good sign. "Hey, I'm sorry, man. I can't shut my mouth, I wasn't thinking—"_

_"It's fine," Jerry said quietly, picking up his keys._

_"—it's all wrong, it's not—I miss him, ya know? I don't want—"_

_"Angel, it's fine," Jerry persisted. "Let's just go eat."_

_Bobby hadn't said anything yet. His head was bowed so Angel couldn't see his expression, but he knew from the set of his shoulders that the issue was still unresolved. It might have been better to let it slide for the moment, buy Bobby a drink later as an apology. But for some reason, he couldn't just let this go. "Bobby, man— I'm sorry—"_

_"Shut up, Angel." Bobby raised his head. His eyes were hard despite the sheen of what looked like angry tears._

_Angel hesitated, then shook his head. He needed Bobby to understand that he was on his side. Stupid things are said in grief. "You need to know, it hurts me too. I didn't mean it, I wanted to save him—"_

_"Angel, now's not the time." Jerry spared a glance at Bobby, then continued quietly, "We all loved Jack. And we're all going to miss him. But we're the Mercers now, just the three of us—"_

_"Shut up. Shut _up_!" Bobby exploded to his feet, quivering with anger. "For Jack's sake, just shut up and stop talking about it!"_

00000

Bobby sighed fitfully and threw an arm over his head. He was lying on Ma's bed, wishing no one had said anything seven hours ago. They'd gone to dinner without him. Jerry was probably home with his family by now, Angel at a bar or with Sofi.

And he was trapped in his old home which was practically falling apart around him. But he couldn't leave. For Jack's sake, he couldn't leave.

The house might fall into complete disrepair, but if he left it'd be taken down and if he ever had the courage to come back, there would be a new family on the street who didn't know or care that Jack's favorite spot had been the middle of the couch or that he was the only one besides Evelyn who knew how to work the stove. They wouldn't ask about the legend pervading the neighborhood that some kid had fallen in with the wrong drug dealers and had to pay his dues with his life, right there on the street corner. It wasn't half-true, but they wouldn't care.

Bobby's dearest desire was to take down Victor Sweet. He wanted to make all of Sweet's men pay. Especially the one who had worn the mask, who had lured Jack out of his brothers' protection. And the gunman who had taken out Jack's legs when he was already down. And the guy who had fired on him and stopped him from getting to Jack until it was too late. For Jack's sake. It all had to be for Jack.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Jack," he whispered. After his brothers left, he had drained the house's supply of alcohol. His vision had long since passed fuzzy and had now moved on to dancing black spots.

The front door slammed and he heard Angel stumble to the couch where seven hours before Bobby had sat and considered pounding his brother to a pulp. They were both drunk. Even Jerry would probably be having himself a beer or something stronger after tonight. The three of them, the remaining Mercers, buzzed into oblivion. Bobby could have thrown up at the pitiful picture it presented. But he didn't. He'd done that a few minutes ago. Now he had just to think, and even that was difficult. He had only a few hours of memories—the ones of Jack in the snow were only a day old and he wasn't going near those. The ones of earlier that evening were still raw. Grief did crazy things to your head, he understood that. He knew what Angel had been trying to do. But it was _Jack_ they were talking about. You can't just talk about _Jack_ that way. So think about something else.

_Ma's room._ He was in Ma's room, lying on her bed. He'd had to move the laundry basket from it when he'd first come home. In the basket had been one of Jack's favorite shirts and it was the one they'd buried his little brother in….

Stop. Don't go there. Something else. Pick something else.

_The small basketball hoop in the hallway._ He had fixed that up for Angel when they were younger. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he'd ever be good at basketball, but Angel had been taller. Not as tall as Jack, though. Jack had giant genes or something….

No. No good.

_Hockey._ He was good at hockey—real good. Of course it was more like brawling on skates when the Michigan Mauler played, but when nobody else wanted to play he could always fall back on his brothers to shoot pucks. That was one game which showed how aggressive Jack was. He wielded his stick like it was a weapon and he could fly over the ice to avoid being smashed against the fencing by someone larger. He'd begged Bobby to teach him once….

Bobby groaned and fisted his hand in the pillow. "Stop it." The raw whisper rasped through his swollen throat. _I haven't been youngest in years. _"Shut up," he murmured. _But we're the Mercers now, just the three of us. _"Just stop it, for Jack's sake." He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, images of snow and guns and blood dancing a frantic waltz through his brain. "I will stop it, for Jack's sake. Jack's sake." His mumble dropped to a whisper as the alcohol numbed his senses. "For Jack's sake."

00000

Snow fell that night, filling the shallow marks in the drifts where a body had lain and three others had knelt around it. The day after was silent, as gray and colorless as the fresh layer of snow. No one came out of the house. No one parted the curtains to look at the street corner, even though it now looked like any other. A few days later, a burly man ventured out the front door to throw away a trash bag full of empty beer cans—and a hockey stick. Legend on the street was that Bobby Mercer had taken a hit and wouldn't touch a hockey stick for a full year. Legend, as always, was only partly right. Mercer wasn't defeated. He just had some business to take care of.

For Jack's sake.


End file.
